Bosch grabbed the key off the rear tire of Ballard’s Defender, unlocked the vehicle, and placed the evidence package on the back seat floor. He relocked the vehicle and put the key back. He was heading back to the market when he got a call from Ballard.
“He left,” she said. “Where are you?”
“By your car,” Bosch said. “I put the cup on the floor in the back seat.”
“I went off script and he got mad. He headed back through the market. Can you pick him up?”
“Hold on.”
Bosch changed directions on 3rd Street. Instead of going up to Hill, he went down to Broadway and waited at the corner to see if Hastings emerged from the south side of the block-long food court.
“I don’t have him,” he said.
“He should be coming out,” Ballard said. “He just walked away less than a minute ago.”
Bosch knew that there were no through-aisles in the market. It was a maze of crowded shops and food concessions, and Hastings would need to move around people and shift from one aisle to another as he made his way through. Not enough time had passed for him to get to Broadway.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” Ballard said. “Let’s just see if—”
“Got him.”
Hastings had left the market and was jaywalking across Broadway. Bosch could see he was talking and then he reached up to his ear. Bosch saw the earbud and knew he had been on a call.
“He just made a call,” Bosch said.
“He’s probably trying to find Kramer,” Ballard said. “This whole thing just blew up.”
“He looks pretty hot.”
“You’re going to stay with him? He may try to confront Kramer.”
“I got him. Wherever he goes.”
“Okay, let me get to my car and head to the lab. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to catch Darcy while she’s there. You stay with Hastings and I’ll call you back.”
She disconnected without waiting for Bosch’s reply. Bosch hung back nearly half a block as he followed Hastings on the four-block walk back to his office in council chambers. Hastings walked down 3rd to Spring and turned left. As he turned the corner, Bosch saw him reach up to the earbud again. He was getting a call.
Bosch picked up his pace, falling into a trot until he reached the corner. He made the turn and walked briskly to catch up close enough to overhear Hastings’s part of the phone conversation.
At the 2nd Street intersection, Hastings had to stop and wait for a green light. The Civic Center was largely deserted because it was a weekend and all the city offices and courts were closed. But Bosch was able to use two pedestrians who were waiting for the light as camouflage when he caught up to Hastings.
At first Hastings stood silently, like he was listening or waiting for someone to speak. Then he started speaking in tight, angry bursts. Because he was aware that others were waiting to cross with him, he dropped his voice so low that Bosch heard nothing. But as soon as the light changed and he stepped into the crosswalk, his voice returned to its sharp tone of command.
And Bosch was able to hear almost every word he said.
“Listen, motherfucker, you call her back and tell her you lied.”
There was another pause during which Hastings flung a hand out in a dismissive gesture.
“Bullshit—you’re the liar. You call her back and tell her what I told you, or I will destroy you. You understand, asshole?”
There was a beat of silence and then Hastings signed off with one word.
“Good.”
Hastings put his finger to his ear to end the call and continued toward City Hall. Bosch once again held back and finally stopped the tail when he watched Hastings go up the stone steps of the historic building. He called Ballard to report on what he had seen and heard.
“He’s back at City Hall,” he said. “Along the way, I think he had somebody find Kramer and put him on a call. He never used the name but he was angry and told somebody to ‘call her back’ and change the story.”
“It was Kramer,” Ballard said. “He just called me and said he just talked to Hastings. He was going apeshit.”
“So was Hastings. You straighten Kramer out?”
“I did. I explained that we were just trying to get a rise out of Hastings. I think he’s cool with it. He doesn’t like the guy, remember?”
“How far did you go off script?”
“I’m pulling in at the lab and I’ve got Darcy Troy waiting for me. Let me drop this off and then I’ll call you back. Or if you want, we can meet somewhere.”
“I could eat. Meet me at Traxx.”
“Is that back open?”
“Yeah. You want anything?”
“I’ll get something to drink when I get there. I already ate.”
It took Bosch ten minutes to get over to Union Station and the restaurant inside its huge waiting hall. It was after the lunch rush and the restaurant wasn’t crowded, but the waiting hall was packed with travelers embracing a postpandemic world, whether the threat of the pandemic was actually over or not.
Bosch was halfway through a grilled cheese sandwich and a side of fries when Ballard slid into the window booth across from him. She took a french fry off his plate in the same fluid motion. Bosch pushed his plate toward the middle of the table.
“Dig in,” he said. “I can’t eat all of this.”
She took another fry as the waitress came to the table.
“I just want an iced tea and some ketchup,” she said.
Bosch let her settle for a moment before going right to the case.
“So Darcy has the cup?”
“She does. She’s putting a rush on it. I think I’ve used up the next three months of favors with her. Especially getting her to come in today.”
“It’ll be worth it when we bag this guy. When will she know?”
“She’s hoping the sequencing is done by tomorrow, and then she’ll put it into CODIS and see if it draws a match.”
“She can’t directly compare what we get from the cup to what they got from the palm print?”
Ballard shook her head.
“Legal protocol handed down by the D.A.’s Office,” she said. “Makes it harder to challenge in court if you don’t go outside the bounds of usual procedure. Skipping it and going to a one-to-one comparison can look like the fix was in. A defense lawyer like your brother, Mickey, could blow that up in court.”
“Half brother. So tomorrow we’ll know.”
“If we’re lucky.”
Bosch nodded and took another bite of his sandwich. He spoke with his mouth full.
“So you went off script with Hastings.”
“Yeah. He sort of got to me when he knocked down all three strikes I had against him.”
“What strikes?”
“He corrected what he meant when he said the Wilson murder was before his time with Pearlman. He now says he meant before his time as chief of staff. He acknowledged today that he was Pearlman’s driver back then. So I went off script when I asked him how he knew Wilson was Black when I didn’t tell him.”
“And?”
“He had an answer for it. I didn’t send him a photo, so he googled her and found a Times story on her murder that had her photo. He was right. The same clip is in the murder book.”
“Look, none of that matters now with the missing kidney. The DNA match will come back and we take him down.”
“I know, I know, but he’s good. He shifted the conversation, so when I got back on script and brought up Kramer and him not giving me the name of the campaign manager when he clearly knew it, he went ballistic.”
“Yeah, I heard Hastings’s side of it. What did Kramer tell you he said to Hastings on the call?”
“He told me he denied saying that Pearlman knew Laura Wilson, but Hastings didn’t believe him. He just yelled and threatened to destroy him.”
“I think you need to call him.”
“Who?”
“Hastings. Tell him that Kramer just called you and changed his story. Maybe that will calm him down. We kind of left Kramer’s ass blowin’ in the wind on this. Hastings should know there is no threat.”
“Like, now?”
“Yeah, call him, see if he answers. We have to give Kramer some cover.”
Ballard pulled her phone and called Hastings. He answered and she quickly explained that she now knew that the information she had received about Pearlman knowing Wilson was wrong. She apologized for not confirming or debunking the intel before bringing it to him. She then listened quietly for almost a minute as Hastings had his say and disconnected without giving her a chance to respond.
“Sounded like that went well,” Bosch said.
“Right,” Ballard said. “Let’s just say that I hope we get that DNA back before he can have me fired Monday.”
Bosch nodded.
“Let’s hope Darcy comes through,” he said.
Ballard leaned back and looked out the window into the waiting hall. Union Station was one of the city’s lasting beauties.
“Think how many people have come through this place to get to this city, Harry,” she said. “People like Laura Wilson, bringing their hopes and dreams.”
“She came from Chicago by train?” Bosch asked.
“She kept a journal. It was in the murder book. She took the train to save money. It took two days and she saw the Rocky Mountains. Then she got here and got killed. How fucking unfair was that?”
“Murder is never fair. I’d like to read that journal.”
“I have it at my desk at Ahmanson.”
Bosch joined her in looking out the window into the hall. Dozens of people from all walks of life moved across the Spanish-tile floor, either heading away from L.A. or having arrived at their destination, suitcases and dreams in hand. He pictured Laura Wilson arriving and moving wide-eyed through the great hall to the doors that opened to the City of Angels. She could not have known that it was her final destination.